


i grow tired of this body

by peachsneakers



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Fluff, Be gentle?, I like second person but it's always been with an already specified character, I've never written a reader fic before so, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Non-binary Reader - Freeform, Not just throwing it into the void, Other, Post-Undertale Pacifist Route, Reader Is Not Chara (Undertale), Reader Is Not Frisk (Undertale), Sans is an awkward skele but he knows how to cuddle, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, gender neutral reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 15:38:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16140296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachsneakers/pseuds/peachsneakers
Summary: You don't see what Sans sees in you, anyway.





	i grow tired of this body

**Author's Note:**

> I live for the cliche "someone walks in on main character self-harming."
> 
> That said, pay attention to the tags, please.

You don't know what he sees in you.

What any of the monsters see in you, really, but him in particular. The others have just stayed friends, but he's the one who wanted more. He's the one who asked for your number (he had to keep asking because at first, you thought it had to be a joke. No one had ever  _wanted_ to talk to you like that before). He's the one who cuddles you on the sofa and steals your popcorn during movie nights. He kisses you (although you still aren't quite sure  _how_ since it isn't like a skeleton has lips). He holds your hand and takes you on walks, no matter how lazy he is, and he shows you the stars. 

He's more than you could ever deserve and you know it. 

He doesn't know your guilty secret. He wears hoodies so often himself, he doesn't question the sweltering grey sleeves that conceal you so often. He doesn't question why you like it so dark when you do anything with your clothes off, why you direct his hands away from your arms and upper thighs when it's time to 'get frisky.' (You scold him for that pun when you remember the monster ambassador's name. His pupils are blown wide with horror when he realizes the unintentional implication and he's never called it that since.)

You wish you could confide in him, but you know better. If you show him what an ugly, broken thing you  _really_ are, he's going to leave you. He'll leave you and you'll  _deserve_ it. No one could love a thing like you. Your family instilled that in you well. Even when your dad walked in on you sprawled out on the bathroom tiles, blood running down both arms, he only took you aside later and told you it figured you couldn't finish the job right.

But this- You look at the safety razor blade cradled in one palm. This, you can do right. The rest of your arms are testament to  _that_ , littered with dozens of thin white scrawls. Some are neat and ordered, others are straggly loops and gnarls of knitted-together white flesh. A few are still pink in the middle. Your measly handful of stinging red scratches won't do much, but they make you feel better. Letting out the ugly- showing the brokenness on the outside. Getting out your emotions, the only way you know how anymore.

You had a shit day at work. Nothing major, but just enough that it all piled up, one after another, like the needling spray of snow in your face, stinging your cheeks and making your eyes narrow. You come home almost two hours before Sans does. Plenty of time to do this. To fix everything, so you can greet Sans at the door with a smile on your face, tears long gone and raw wounds hidden neatly beneath criss-crossed band-aids and dark hoodie sleeves. He'll be tired when he gets home. He doesn't need to put up with your shit.

You only realize that you've dissociated longer than you thought when you hear the front door creak open and Sans's voice fill the apartment. 

"babe?"

"Oh,  _shit_ ," you whisper, staring around you in panic. You're sitting on the bathroom floor, sweatshirt folded over the bathtub, surrounded by bloody tissue paper. The new scratches on your arms stand out just as much as if you had a neon sign pointing to them.  _Look at me!_ They proclaim in gaudy scarlet letters.  _Look at what a fuck-up I am!_

"babe?" Sans repeats. He sounds concerned. You can hear his footsteps start to come closer and you struggle to your feet. You can't do this sitting down, you just can't. (You can't do this at all, but that's beside the point.)

"Be out in a minute," you say, but your voice is wobbling too much, and he opens the door just as you've gathered all the evidence in one hand, ready to flush down the toilet. He stares at you, pin prick pupils gone out in shock. You fancy you can see your reflection in the black voids of his eye sockets, a slightly chubby fuck-up with red streaks down both arms and messy hair.

"sweetheart?" He asks and his voice is so small, so  _wounded_ , you feel fresh tears well up.

"I'm sorry," you blurt out, sitting down hard on the edge of the tub before you fall over. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean for you to see, I didn't-"

"shh, it's okay." He's there, cool, bony hands resting against yours. "what's wrong?"

"Nothing," you try, but he snorts, the skepticism emanating from him so thick, you can nearly taste it.

"sorry, babe, but you and i both know that's bullshit," he says. Your shoulders sag. This is it then. 

"I don't know," you admit in a shamed whisper. "I just- It helps, sometimes-" You explain more, then. The suicide attempt. The shock when you hurt yourself the first time and it calmed you down. How you kept doing it. The comfort of your hoodie, wrapped around you like a shroud. How you know it's a surprise, it's too much, you don't blame him at all for leaving, and-

"i'm not leaving you," He interrupts you. You stare at him with wet eyes. "babe, i- i admit i don't understand this," he says, looking around at the bloody bathroom tableau. "but ya think i don't understand depression? feeling so shit, you can barely get outta bed? i almost fell down before i met you. you're important to me. i- i love you."

"I love you, too," you whisper. "I- I'm sorry I'm so fucked up," you add with a weak laugh.

"nah, you ain't fucked up," Sans says. "c'mon." He holds out his arms. You step into them, and the world winks out. A moment later, you're in the bedroom, pressed down into the bed. 

"Er-" You stare at him in surprise. "You can't  _possibly_ be in the mood to-"

"of course not," he says, rolling his eyes. "i bonely wanna cuddle." The pun, over-used as it is, still makes you laugh and you crawl against him, feeling his arms wrap around you.

"i'll never leave you," he murmurs into your hair. "no matter what."

You can't help but smile.


End file.
